Surviving the Fall
by Lady Sam Mallory
Summary: This is a Reichenbach/post Reichenbach story in which John must come to terms with the events of the Reichenbach fall and figure out how to put his life back together again. Will he ever be able to survive the fall? COMPLETE!


Surviving the Fall

Disclaimers: Boys not mine; I just borrow them from time to time when the muse moves me.

Special Thanks to my Beta Queen, Zoe, without whom I'd be doomed to a life of grammatical inaccuracy. For my beautiful friend, Heather, whose incredible command of the English language allows her to provide me with individually needed words at a moment's notice.

A warm thank you to my beloved friend Trisha for planting the seed that led to the absolutely brilliant idea of the locale for John's visits with Sherlock.

A very special thank you to Ariane DeVere for providing the _Reichenbach Fall_ transcript that made writing this about a thousand times easier.

Warnings: H/C, Angst, Smarm, Some violence, and usually a bit of colorful language.

Spoilers: Reichenbach

"Sod it," John curses as he looks down at his watch. "Drive faster, please," he commands as he forces himself back in the seat.

"Come on. Come on…" he mumbles impatiently.

The brakes sound and he tosses the fare at the cabbie as he races from the car. His phone rings, and he hurriedly pulls it from his pocket and sighs as he sees that it's Sherlock.

"Hello?" he answers tentatively, incredibly relieved that Sherlock has not seemed to have had the time to do something utterly stupid.

"John," Sherlock utters, closing his eyes and then opening them again.

"Sherlock, you okay?" John questions, beginning to doubt the relieved reaction he felt only moments ago upon receiving a call from Sherlock.

"Turn around and walk back the way you came," Sherlock commands unsteadily, looking down upon John as he races to save him from himself.

John shakes his head slightly insisting, "No, I'm coming in."

"Just do as I ask… Please," Sherlock frantically demands, praying that John will adhere to the conditions needed for this to succeed in saving his best friend's life.

John pauses at Sherlock's beseeching tone, and a sudden frisson of fear causes him to stop and follow Sherlock's instructions without additional hesitation, scanning the streets for any sign of his friend.

"Stop there," Sherlock directs, his breathing shallow. He pauses to take a deep breath and closes his eyes again. This is difficult. Why does it have to be so damned difficult?

John stops suddenly at the command and asks, "Where?" as his pragmatic mind begins to unravel slightly at the unease prickling just beneath his skin.

"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop," Sherlock admits, his voice vibrating with the strain of holding back his emotions. Emotions that he had long ago thought divorced from himself. Emotions, which while often predictable, lead to extraordinarily unpredictable actions.

John turns slowly, looking up; the dawning horror of what he is seeing creeping upon his face.

"Oh God," he gasps, taking several steps backward as if to distance himself from what his subconscious mind is telling him is about to happen.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and begins his final play. "I…I…I can't come down, so we'll…we'll just have to do it like this," he manages to speak, his voice shaking, his control strained where John is concerned.

John's breathing becomes labored from what he sees before him. "What's going on?" John hesitantly inquires, frustrated by the distance between them and its effect on his ability to read his friend.

"An apology," Sherlock offers deliberately. "It's all true," he continues hopelessly. This must work to save John.

"Wh-what?" John stutters, staggering backward knowing that he has obviously misheard or misread the situation. His gaze searches for the cause of these untruths. Moriarty. Where is he? What has he done to Sherlock?

"Everything they said about me," he pauses adding the last morsel of information that he knows will condemn him and set John free. "I invented Moriarty."

Sherlock's gaze strays from John as he catches a glimpse of Moriarty's smug expression on a pale corpse. He forces himself to look at John as he struggles to protect him with his lies.

John staggers slightly and looks up at Sherlock in disbelief. "Why are you saying this?" He forces the words out on a hushed gasp past the knot in his throat at the words that his best friend has just uttered.

Sherlock turns back to look down upon his professed only friend and answers him, once again impressed at John's intuition, his normally strong voice breaking a bit, "I'm a fake."

"Sherlock," John interrupts gasping, trying desperately to fill in the blanks of what Sherlock's plan is at this very moment. Moriarty must be watching from nearby for Sherlock to be so blatantly emotional in his pleas.

"The newspapers were right all along," he continues his tearful delivery. "I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly. In fact… tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes." Please, John. You must do this or your life is forfeit. You must believe.

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up," John hisses. "The first time we met…the _first time we met, _you knew all about my sister, right?" Johns reminds Sherlock as his mind begins spinning out of control at the thought that maybe Sherlock is in some real trouble here.

Sod it, Moriarty! What have you done to him? Keep him calm, John. Keep him talking. John's professional skill set starts pouring forth, and he reaches deep for a calm that he most definitely does not feel.

"Nobody could be that clever," Sherlock replies, his emotionless mask sliding back into place as he once again attempts to distance himself from his remarkably intuitive friend.

"You could!" John insists as Sherlock laughs and casts his eyes downward to look proudly upon him, teardrops sliding from the sharp curve of his chin.

Sherlock pauses momentarily to formulate the lie in his brain with a muted apology and admiration in his eyes. John must believe.

"I researched you," he counters in explanation. "Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you," he finishes, sniffing quietly, nearly wincing at the pain these words were causing his friend.

"It's a trick. Just a magic trick," Sherlock concludes as he glances down upon John fondly.

John closes his eyes and shakes his head repeatedly in refusal as his face transforms into a seething mask of anger. Not doubt, but an incredible well of anger. Why in the hell is Sherlock saying these absolutely ridiculous things? Where in the hell is Moriarty?

"No," John commands, his anger erupting slightly at Sherlock's absurd confessions. "All right, stop it now," he orders his friend as he begins to walk toward the hospital entrance.

"No, stay _exactly_ where you are. Don't move," Sherlock insists vehemently once again.

John stops suddenly and backs up several steps to follow his friend's confusing instructions, raising his hand up towards Sherlock. Why the hell won't Sherlock trust him enough to let him help him?

"All right," John capitulates, trying to calm his agitated friend.

Sherlock pauses, knowing that time is running out quickly, and breathing rapidly, unconsciously responds to John by stretching out his own hand towards his friend.

Sherlock begins to pant, overloading on his fear and other emotions. "Keep your eyes fixed on me," Sherlock asks, frantically followed by, "Please, will you do this for me?" Although he realizes it is selfish, he needs John to do this for him. Without his support, Sherlock knew, _knew_ with absolute certainty that he would not be able to follow through with his plan to save John's life. Anything less is unacceptable.

John hesitates before responding, hearing the tears in his best friend's voice. "Do what?"

"The phone call. It's, um…it's my note," he admits, the corners of his mouth turned downward. "It's what people do, don't they ~ leave a note?" Sherlock looks down upon John, his face twisted slightly with disgust as he compares himself to the ordinary man.

"Leave a note when?" John asks as he closes his eyes, and unconsciously pulls the phone away from his ear, not wanting to hear the answer. Consciously, he draws the phone back to his ear, not wanting to miss a moment of this time with his dear friend.

"Goodbye, John," Sherlock states with finality.

John shakes his head emphatically. "No. Don't," he begs quietly, with tears corrupting his vision, the full weight of this flash of time is brought to bear before him.

Sherlock scrutinizes his friend for mere seconds as he commits to the plan at hand. He lowers his outstretched hand and tosses the phone onto the roof where he knows that Lestrade will collect it afterwards.

John hears the phone clatter to the rooftop and brings low his own phone as he screams upwards. "No! Sherlock!" He bellows with all the shock and fire raging within him. "Sher…" he whispers, as he is powerless to close his eyes and deny Sherlock his last wish.

Sherlock's resolve is engaged as he spreads his arms to his sides like the angels he fights for and steps from the roof. The wind pulls at him, but he feels oddly at peace with the knowledge that John will be protected by this act of deception.

He has never lied to John outright out of malice, but _must_, _must_ always provide the means by which John will be protected from harm, even that which he has himself caused. Then, he pulls his focus into the jump ensuring that he will make the marks he has set for the elaborate endgame.

John's vision grays out as he realizes fully what he has just witnessed. He tries to move forward. He must get to his friend, but his body is going into shock and refuses to cooperate. He staggers disjointedly forward, the river in his ears rushing him through turbulent waters.

_Must get to Sherlock. _

_Must get to Sherlock_.

This is all that bolts through his mind, tearing away all reason as he lurches forward slowly. He cannot see his broken body. Sherlock is hidden from him, and John fleetingly considers the absolute evil that is Moriarty.

As he sluggishly navigates the corner that will lead him to his friend, he slams down into the ground impacting his head with great force along with his left shoulder. It dawns on him that Moriarty has found him and that he should fight and even kill him for what he has made Sherlock do, but his strength wanes and he only has eyes for a fallen hero.

His ears ringing, he can barely move as he lay on the ground groaning from the pain of that fateful blow. His perception is skewed as he tries to make sense of what has happened. There is no Moriarty, only a bicyclist who continues onward.

John slowly regains his footing, shuffling across the empty street, working his way toward where he had last seen his best friend.

"Sherlock, Sherlock…" he whispers as he staggers ever closer.

He pushes his way across the empty street, abstractedly holding onto his left shoulder, which had broken his fall.

Pushing through the crowd of onlookers, John automatically says the words that he knows will get him through, "I'm a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through, please."

The crowd parts for him, as he knew they would, giving him his first horrifying view of his best friend lying prone on the ground before him, Sherlock Holmes.

Gasping, he continues to push his way through the crowd even as they grasp his arms in an effort to steady him as he staggers.

He reaches for Sherlock's wrist, latching on to take his pulse when the medics arrive and begin pulling him away.

"No," he cries out, "He's my friend. He's my friend. Please," he pleads reaching for Sherlock.

"Please, let me just…" John begs frantically.

Sherlock's broken and bloody body is turned over as John loses his battle with the overwhelming circumstances he has just witnessed and sits down heavily. John glances again at Sherlock's staring eyes and begins to retch with the shock of it all. He groans despairingly and reaches for Sherlock.

"Ugh, Jesus…. no," he mumbles, as the breath suddenly leaves him, and he falls forward with the crushing pain that has captured his heart and tries to really look at Sherlock.

He seems drawn to those vacant blue eyes. The light of amusement-tinged annoyance has gone out. There is nothing in those cold, dead, wide eyes anymore. John flinches away from Sherlock as he simultaneously tries to reach him.

He tries to stand but cannot possibly manage it and sinks down to the hard, unyielding ground once again.

"God, no," he cries out again, still unable to process everything around him.

Four medics lift Sherlock's lifeless body onto a stretcher and begin to wheel him inside. John's eyes follow it carefully, yet uncomprehendingly, as he manages to get to his feet, pushing away anyone touching him, and hunches over.

He pitches forward, determined not to let his friend out of his sight.

"Sir, are you okay?" a concerned nurse asks him, only to have her question fall on deaf ears.

John nods unconvincingly, shoving her away from him. Looking down at _his_ blood, _Sherlock's blood_covering the sidewalk, he sinks to his knees once again. Why? Oh, God. How in the hell had this happened?

John settles down to sit next to the blood left by his friend- his last connection to him and wraps his arms around his knees resting his head upon them.

His senses heighten with all the commotion around him, yet he feels unbearably numb as well.

* * *

A lifetime later, a hand comes down forcefully on his shoulder. He draws back and lets his fist fly, his target a complete unknown yet he cannot seem to bother about caring.

"John? What's going on?" Lestrade demands horrified of the answer that he may receive.

"John," Lestrade tries a bit more forcefully, then steps back stunned when he notices that John's left hand rests in a blood pool which is beginning to dry and crumble upon the back of his hand.

Lestrade closes his eyes, and his head drops as he begins to put the pieces together of what may have happened here. He had responded to the 999 call about a jarred off sod who had jumped from the rooftop of St. Bart's as he was already on his way to the hospital to meet John.

Lestrade looks back down at the text he received from Sherlock not twenty minutes ago.

_Hospital now. _

_John needs you._

_Urgent._

S.H.

_P.S. Do not fail me this time._

_P.S.S. Protect John_

_P.S.S.S. Do not tell John._

"John, where's Sherlock?" Lestrade asks, trying to gain the pale man's attention. His concern deepens as he realizes that John has not moved, unless you count the trembling fingers of his left hand still resting in what Lestrade is now assuming to be Sherlock's blood.

Looking around for clues, he flags down a medic, flashes his credentials and orders, "Get a stretcher, now! I think he's in shock, and he is not responsive at all. Go!"

The medic calls it in on his mobile and bends down to check John's pulse rate. John doesn't respond in any way.

"What happened?" The medic questions Lestrade in an effort to acquire as much patient information as possible.

"I don't bloody know. I just got here to find him like this. He was supposed to meet me here," he glances down at the blood. "Was another patient perhaps brought in recently? His name may be Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade interrogates the young man before him.

The medic glances up horrified. "Did you say Sherlock Holmes? Bugger me! He was just brought in DOA 'bout ten minutes ago. Wait…that means… is this Dr. John Watson?"

Lestrade nods affirmatively as he tries to process what he's just heard. "Pardon, but did you say DOA? Sherlock is dead?" After receiving an affirmative, he swears. "What the bloody hell happened here?" He demands officiously, just as his mobile rings off.

"Lestrade," he barks into his phone as his face draws down into a scowl.

The stretcher arrives and the paramedics begin to load John onto it. He begins to fight, not exactly sure where, or even when, he is at this moment, the precise second that they remove his shaking fingers from the congealing pool of crimson blood.

Lestrade straightens with apprehension, drops his phone hand down a bit and growls authoritatively, "Be careful with him, damn it." Then shakes his head and continues, "Not you. Where? Ok…give me a moment and I'm on my way," he finishes, tucking his phone into his pocket.

Lestrade leans in to grasp John by the shoulders and places himself at eye level. "Stop fighting, John. Let us help you," he softly orders, squeezing the man's shoulders gently, not missing the wince on John's face from his obvious discomfort.

John looks up at him as if seeing him for the first time. "Back off," he warns menacingly. "It's…your…sodding…fault," John accuses in the midst of his wheezing breathing.

Lestrade flinches as if he's just punched him in the face. "You got this?" he inquires of the paramedics, and then turning to John finishes, "I have to go, but I'll check on you later, right?"

John pushes away from him. "I'm fine. No stretcher. I'm fine," he utters, swiping at his face with his hands leaving behind a smudged trail of drying blood. He takes a deep breath to reign in his anger and contempt.

"You most certainly are not fine. You have to go with them, John. They need to check you out," Lestrade tells him, his tone brokering no argument.

John glares at him, as Lestrade continues, "You will be checked out, John."

John considers for a moment then turns making his way unsteadily towards the doors Sherlock was taken through just a bit ago. He pauses inquiring of the medics, sarcasm dripping from his vexed articulation, "Coming?"

The paramedics snatch up their gear and begin to follow him as Lestrade reminds John that he will check how he's doing later. He suppresses a chill at the fact that the doctor doesn't turn around or even acknowledge him with words but rather a slight wave of his blood covered hand.

* * *

Lestrade steps out onto the roof seeking out this new crime scene. "What have we got, Anderson?" He asks the man crouching down over the body.

Anderson looks up and replies, "It's Richard Brook. Single gunshot to the head. Looks to be self inflicted…"

Anderson pauses causing Lestrade to look over at him questioningly, as he notices a mobile lying several feet away.

"What're you thinking, Anderson?" He interrogates, his suspicions aroused as to where this may be going.

Anderson looks over at Donovan causing Lestrade to lose his patience as he leans over to pick up the mobile. "Don't look at her. You answer me now. What…are…you thinking?"

Anderson looks back down at the body bleeding out before him.

"Oh, for…" Donovan exclaims. "Isn't it obvious what he's suggesting? It was Sherlock, sir. Sherlock hired this man and now he's tyin' up loose ends," Donovan spits out, her face not even concealing her disgust at the now famous detective.

Lestrade scowls, as he looks at both of them, unbelieving of the depth of their distrust and envy of a young man whose life was cut way too short, and begins to boil with rage.

Anderson, misinterpreting the anger, puts in, "Come on, sir. What can it hurt to just bring him in and ask him some questions? I know he's your friend, but…"

Lestrade turns calmly to look at them both. "Follow me, NOW," he commands as he leads them over to the edge of the building. They both follow reluctantly, unsure of what will happen next.

Lestrade barely checks his rage behind a mask of eerie calm. "See the blood on the ground there?" He growls at them. "That blood belongs to Sherlock Holmes. He's dead and John is downstairs in the A & E being treated for shock. If you wanna ask Sherlock some questions, be my guest, but you need to talk to Molly in the morgue."

* * *

"What's your name?" The doctor inquires of the somewhat dazed man sitting on the stretcher in the dull neutral room, while flicking a light into his eyes.

"Get that sodding light outta my face," John sneers, angrily pushing it away, then takes a deep breath to calm himself. If he is not calm, he will not be leaving tonight. Best to cooperate.

The doctor repeats the question again with less patience, "Your name?"

"Dr. John H. Watson," John answers slowly, looking the doctor right in the eyes. "Look, I'm buggered and I just want to go…home and hit the sack. I know I've a mild concussion. Had one several times before I was invalided back to London. I'm fine."

"Actually, I would say it's a moderate concussion from what I've seen here," the doctor corrects before adding, "Do you know where you are?" He continues questioning the good doctor's orientation.

"St. Bart's," John curtly replies, "and if I hadn't broken my sodding watch when I fell, I could tell you the time. I was hit by something as I was crossing the road. I didn't see what it was, but the injuries are inconsistent with a car. I would guess a cyclist by the force of it. I really am fine, doctor," he lies nearly flawlessly.

"And your left shoulder?" The doctor prompts, his tone showing the utmost professional courtesy.

"Wrenched it. Wrap it up for me and it'll be right in a few days," John insists, a bit impressed that this doctor noticed the symptoms he was carefully trying to conceal. He'd lived with Sherlock for Christ's sake; this doctor is no match for that. A wave of sadness washes over him as he realizes that Sherlock is…gone.

Upon the doctor's nod, the nurse turns to wrap up his shoulder in an arm immobiliser sling. "Remember, you will need to wear this as long as it takes for your shoulder to settle," she instructs, then blushes as she just recognizes that she is giving these instructions to a doctor. He gives her an amused yet saddened smile.

John winces as she maneuvers his pained arm and shoulder into position to get it wrapped tight and placed in the immobiliser. "I'm sorry if this hurts you," she whispers, her hands gentle and warm on his shoulder.

He smiles forlornly at her. "No worries, it's fine," he assures the young nurse.

As she finishes binding his shoulder, she says, "I'll be right back, Dr. Watson, with your orders. It may be a bit. With that concussion, the doctor may be wanting to admit you for the night," she lets him know, as if telling him a secret.

John leans forward as if to share his own secret with her. "I won't be staying, so you may want to tell him that," John states with a finality that startles her a bit.

She chuckles, shaking her head, then smiles, "You doctors are all alike. Not a one of you makes for a good patient."

John nods distractedly, with sympathy. "I know," he replies a little solemnly.

"Now don't you go anywhere, Dr. Watson. I'll be right back," she promises with a wink and a smile, flirting a bit with the handsome doctor sitting on the stretcher before her.

John looks around the room trying to stay out of his head and failing miserably.

_God, Sherlock. Why? Nope. No. No. We're not going there right now. Later. We can think about all that rot later. _

The nurse reenters the desolate room and shudders at the oppressive sadness she feels when she looks towards John to give him the orders.

"Okay, Dr. Watson. Dr. Burton wants to keep you overnight for observation," she stops as she sees that John is already shaking his head in a most negative fashion. "He says that because you are so adamant to leave our company that he will allow you to go home, if, and this is a deal breaker, you have someone at home to keep an eye on you."

John smiles, albeit a bit sadly, and assures her, "I won't be by myself. My friend Jack will be there," he assures her.

"Very well, you will need to sign the forms that you're leaving against Dr. Burton's advice, but I brought them just in case. Please sign here and here and I'll need your initials right here. Now you're sure 'bout leaving?" she checks one last time.

John nods matter of factly and reassures her, "I'll be fine. Jack will take care of everything for right now."

* * *

John leaves the hospital, walking briskly, pulling his coat around him to keep himself from flying apart. He starts up Goswell Road and keeps moving one foot in front of another until he comes to a wine merchant.

It's not the first one he has passed, but he feels he must stop by and numb up a bit before finding a place to sack out. He walks into a small shop with several shiny glass bottles on the shelves. He grabs a bottle of Jack Daniels off the shelf and makes his way to the shop assistant to pay for it.

"Sorry, Harry," he mumbles beneath his breath, his eyes downcast to the floor. "Sorry." John remembers nicking bottles with his sister from his parent's spirits cabinet. "So sorry, Harry. Should have paid you more mind," he apologizes once again.

John tosses a few notes to the bearded man behind the counter and clutching his purchase like a drowning man would a life preserver, he makes his way back to the street to find a bed for the night. He knows he's already spackered from the day that he's had, but all things considered in about an hour, he hopes to be more so.

John quickly finds a room and dispatches with his coat post haste. Sitting on the bed in this dismal little room strangely reminds him of _exactly_ where he started once invalided from the military. He remembers that he was living in a place just like this the day he met Sherlock. He smiles painfully while reminiscing about that fateful meeting. His warm feelings suddenly turn to anger.

There's no way in bloody hell that he will ever believe that Sherlock lied to him. Not ever. Huffing out a breath, he violently twists the cap off the bottle of Jack one handed, whilst holding the bottle between his knees.

He tosses back a bit and sighs at the first burn of the amber liquid. He devours a bit more, sneering at the fire that is spreading through his chest with each additional swallow. Looking around the room, John takes another swig hoping like hell that it won't take much to get completely snockered and numb him to the pain of this fucking unending day.

A few more swallows and he slides off the end of the bed to rest up against it, his head tipped back, the bottle shaking slightly from his trembling hand. John tries to breathe, but it gets caught up and he can't get past the knot in his throat. He chokes and gags trying futilely to clear out his throat.

"Oh, bloody hell, Sherlock. What were you thinking?" he sputters, tears welling up in his ever-changing eyes. He blows out a breath, trying to keep it all inside, and takes several more swigs of the vile stuff he'd promised himself he'd never rely upon.

"Shit," he cries out quietly, not wanting to be heard by the other tenants in the bedsit.

He rocks back and forth, his arms coming up around his torso, trying to keep himself together. "Christ…Christ…Christ…" he chants as the pain in his chest becomes nearly unbearable. "Why, damn it? Sherlock, you sodding bastard. You selfish dick. How? How could you do this?"

The tears fall now, and he is helpless to stop them. His words come out in gasps of air, pushed forcefully from his body as he sobs into the sleeve of his jumper. "I can't hack this. I just can't."

Right this very moment, he should be sitting in his chair, listening to Sherlock's ridiculously brilliant theory about the latest crime that Lestrade has sent his way. Lestrade. He should have protected him. He knew that a shit storm was coming. Why didn't he guard him better?

He huffs out a few short breaths. "No…no, _I _should have protected him. I was his only friend, and it was my sodding job to do it. Why wouldn't you let me do my job, Sherlock? Why didn't you tell me the plan? Stupid plan, by the by, you self-righteous fuck," he curses as he takes a few more swallows of the mind-numbing whiskey.

"Jumping off a bloody building is not a plan, Sherlock. You egotistical, narcissistic bastard. Damn you," he sobs, taking another few swigs, as he starts to fall over.

"You were my best friend," he sighs tearfully, finally giving in to his exhaustion as he falls over onto his right side, the half empty bottle of whiskey still secured in his right hand. His wheezy breath quiets as he passes out whispering once again the only words that matter. "You were my friend."

* * *

John awakens to a rumbling groan and soon realizes that it has come from him. Sitting up carefully, he grabs his head with his free hand and moans loudly. "Hell, why do I feel like I was run over?" he asks the empty room.

He thinks for a second and answers his own question, "Right, that would be because I was." He sees the bottle of whiskey standing tall on the floor next to his hand. "And apparently Jack and I spent a bit too much time together last night. What the…I know better than to be going on a bender," he reminds himself.

Taking a moment to absorb his surroundings, he realizes that he is definitely not in his room at the flat. He blinks a few times and shakes his head trying to clear it. Hand flying up to his head, he whispers, "Okay, that was stupid. Let's not have a repeat of that."

_Where am I?_ He looks around again, not recognizing a sodding thing. "Hope I haven't been kidnapped again," he mumbles, his vision fading out as he closes his eyes. He sits up with a bit of an uproar. "Christ, that was a bit not good. Oh, God. No….no…no…fuck," he sobs with the comprehension of why he is here. Why he is on the floor. Why his life has just turned to complete and utter shit.

Sherlock Holmes is dead.

John curls in on himself with despair for his friend, then forcing himself to take a deep breath, he suddenly stops. Stops everything to breathe. Breathe in and breathe out. Breathe in and breathe out.

He looks again at the bottle half filled with the amber whiskey that helped him forget the pain for one night. Picking it up, he drags himself off the floor and dumps it in the sink of the loo.

John looks at himself in the mirror. "You are one sorry sot, my friend," he says then turns away from his reflection and heads out the door.

* * *

"For goodness sake, John, I've been worried sick," Mrs. Hudson fusses as she opens the door to find him standing there. "You and Sherlock up at all hours, coming and going. It's a wonder, I can kip at all."

She takes in his haggard appearance, bloodshot eyes and the immobiliser sling on his left arm. "What in the world happened to you, John, and where is Sherlock?"

John takes a deep breath and raises his hand to the side of her face. "Mrs. Hudson, I could really use a cuppa," he distracts, while he considers how to break this dear woman's heart.

She prattles on as she makes the tea and startles a bit when John sits at her table instead of heading up the stairs as he usually would.

Handing him the cup, she queries, "Out with it, John. You look like you've had the stuffing kicked outta you."

John's slight smile turns into a grimace of remembered pain. He clears his throat to begin but still has to take a few swallows to find his voice.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson. I should have come to you sooner, but I…" he begins quietly, taking her hand in empathy for what he must do.

"Was busy getting snockered, looks to me. Now, knock it off and tell me. It can't be as bad as you think," she demands sympathetically.

John considers that for a moment and has to nod as tears fill his eyes. "Bugger me! This is bloody difficult, Mrs. Hudson. Yesterday evening, Sherlock…well, he's…Mrs. Hudson," he tries but the words will not come out.

Mrs. Hudson senses his distress and starts to pat his hand, "Has Sherlock been hurt, John? Where is he, love?"

John clears his throat again and with tears choking the words from him, he manages, "Sherlock is dead, Mrs. Hudson."

She closes her eyes placing her right hand over her heart. "It can't be…" she moans softly.

"I was there, Mrs. Hudson. He's gone," he tells her gently, as he wraps his one arm around her.

"But, but, how?" she whispers, her eyes searching John's trying to make some sort of sense of it all.

John takes a deep breath determined not to tell her everything, not to share the burden of knowing all that he knows. Unfortunately, it doesn't matter what he wants in this instance. She would find out from the bloody press.

"He died of massive trauma, Mrs. Hudson. It will be all over the telly and papers, but I still can't believe it. He jumped from the rooftop of St. Bart's. He died instantly, Mrs. Hudson," he reassures his terribly upset landlady and friend.

"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner, but I was having a bit of trouble myself," he tells her, not wanting to share too much for fear he'd break apart.

Mrs. Hudson nods and composes herself quickly with a hiccup. "Well now, look at me pratting about. Sherlock would be fairly disappointed by all these tears," she gasps wiping her tears away on her sleeve.

"Come now, we need to get you up to bed. You look positively knackered," she says as she grasps his arm in an effort to help him up the stairs.

He holds steady shaking his head to and fro, his expression stony. "I can't… I can't go up there, Mrs. Hudson," he hisses quietly, blowing out his breath, his eyes blinking furiously.

She nods understandingly. "Ok, I know. It's okay. We won't go there. Let me settle you on the sofa. You need a rest, John," she comforts as she gently pushes him down to the cushions and covers him with a colorful duvet.

He begins to resist, but the traumatic exhaustion pulling at his limbs is too overpowering and he settles in to sleep, although restlessly. After a moment, his eyes shoot open but soon close again.

Mrs. Hudson smiles down at him and sweeps the hair away from his face. "Oh Sherlock, what have you done, dearie?"

* * *

Several hours have passed when John wakes feeling drained, but comfortable and warm. He sighs contentedly before realizing that he has no business being content. Kicking back the duvet, he looks around for Mrs. Hudson.

"In here, John," she calls from the kitchen. "I made you a cuppa. Do you feel better?" She asks looking upon him with concerned bloodshot eyes.

John looks at her sheepishly, "Sorry for conkin' out on you. I must have been more tired than I thought."

"Nonsense, John. All this business with Sherlock has everyone in a tizzy. I wanted to talk to you about some things," she states tentatively.

Shaking his head ever so slightly, he replies, "Mrs. Hudson, I don't want to be rude when you've been so kind…"

She looks up at him, and her expression stops him in his tracks.

"Listen to me, John. We've had a terrible shock. I understand that you need some time to deal with all this rot, but I need _you_ to understand that there's no way I can do this alone," she starts, then raises her hand to forestall any interruption.

"I can go through his things later. That's not a problem. You will need a place to stay, and my sofa is not the best," Mrs. Hudson relates not wanting to cause him any more pain.

John nods and tells her, "I was considering what my options may be. I don't want to go to Harry because she has enough troubles of her own. I'm still pissed at Lestrade for how everything went down."

He rubs his face with both hands, "I can't go back to the flat, Mrs. Hudson. I just can't and I would rather die than even look at Mycroft who started this whole bloody mess with his puppeteering."

Mrs. Hudson shakes her head amused and regretful at the same time, "Remember, John, Sherlock is…was his little brother. Sometimes that makes you act like a total wanker."

John couldn't help himself. He laughs out loud, and it actually feels pretty good. He closes his eyes and takes another breath, only opening them when he feels Mrs. Hudson's hand touch his shoulder.

"Actually, I was hoping to talk you into a bit of spackling. I have the room in the basement, 221C. I thought we could get it fixed up a bit and you could stay there until you're ready."

He nods, his eyes suspiciously wet, "Might be a bit of a nutter for awhile, but that sounds perfect, Mrs. Hudson."

* * *

John glares at the press behind barriers in the graveyard, his aggravation completely apparent. Mrs. Hudson takes his arm as if to calm him a bit. He pats her hand to reassure her that he will not do anything too stupid.

Turning his attention back to the graveside, John ignores the fact that Mycroft is standing next to him as they lower Sherlock's coffin into the ground.

Molly starts to cry as the coffin continues to be lowered. She hides her face in her hands and turns away unable to watch any longer.

John stands like a stoic statue waiting for this moment to be over. How can this have happened? He asks himself this question every single day. Unfortunately, he has yet to provide himself with an adequate answer.

The officiate says words that John scarcely even hears. His attention remains on the box being lowered into the ground. _God, Sherlock would hate this. He would be so bored. He might even shoot something. _

The last thought makes him smile sadly. Mrs. Hudson leans closer to him, and he nods to her that he is okay.

Over the past week, they have been solid for each other. No real speaking, just an additional presence that helps dull the pain ever so slightly.

Mrs. Hudson worries about John something awful. She does try to get him to eat once in awhile, but it holds no appeal for him. Looking at his suit, she sees he's lost several kilograms, and his clothes are fitting a bit loosely.

Lestrade glances over at them wearily. It is obvious that the man has had very little sleep in the past few days.

After the service, Molly leaves tearfully, promising that she will try to keep in touch.

Mycroft senses that John and he are not on amiable terms and starts to return to his car where Anthea waits for him. He brushes his fingers over the top of the heavy black marble gravestone that is his brother's final resting place. It is plain with only the name Sherlock Holmes on it.

"Goodbye, dear brother," Mycroft whispers respectfully, then turns to go back to the car.

He too looks as though he has not slept in a bit. Funny how one incredibly obnoxious annoying git could keep so many people from sleeping just by being absent.

John shakes his head at the absurdity of his thoughts. Mrs. Hudson squeezes his good hand and tells him, "John, I will wait for you by the entrance. I feel a bit like a walk."

John nods and looks over at Lestrade who stands silently waiting for him. "What do you want, Greg?" He asks bitterly.

Lestrade holds out his hand to John. "Look, I'm sorry for the way things went down at…"

"Don't…" John forces out and holds up his hand to stop any further comment. "I don't want to hear it right now."

"I get that. I really do, but it is very important that I speak to you immediately. We don't have to do it here. We could do it at the flat or over coffee or in my office. It doesn't really matter," Lestrade petitions the somber man standing before him.

John listens and takes a moment to gather his thoughts, "I…what's this about?"

Lestrade pauses deliberately before answering, "I found Sherlock's phone on the roof of St. Bart's. You _need_ to take a listen."

John deliberates momentarily and considers what could be on Sherlock's phone. After a short pause, he realizes that it doesn't really matter what's on the phone; he has to hear it.

"Very well, I'll see you at your office in about an hour. I need to get Mrs. Hudson home," John dictates as he places his fingers lightly in benediction on the black marble slab.

* * *

John strides into Lestrade's office in just under an hour coming to stop behind one of the chairs.

"Glad you could come, mate," Lestrade welcomes. "Have a seat if you like."

"I'm good or at least good enough. What's this about Sherlock's phone?" John inquires with restrained politeness.

Lestrade pulls a clear evidence bag out of his desk drawer and lays it before him. "I picked this up on the roof of St. Bart's, but I presume that you already know this. His last phone call was to you. It lasted for several minutes."

John studies Lestrade's face for any hint of what the man is getting at, but comes up with nothing.

"This is important because he also recorded the last conversation he had with a man we found shot in the head on the rooftop of St. Bart's," Lestrade starts, then pauses at the flash of anger in John's eyes.

"Surely, you don't think that Sherlock killed this man before…before? That's ridiculous," he vents, his knuckles stretched white from clutching the back of the chair in an effort not to throttle Lestrade.

Lestrade continues, "The victim's name was Richard Brook."

"Richard Brook is Jim Moriarty," John bellows, starting to come around the chair he's grabbed.

Lestrade holds up a single hand hoping to placate the angry man standing before him. "We know, John," His voice gentles as though dealing with a wild animal. "Sherlock recorded their conversation on the rooftop of St. Bart's. We know that and so much more."

He pulls out his notebook and begins flipping through the pages of notes he took while listening to the recording on Sherlock's phone.

"According to my notes, we also learned that Jim Moriarty…" Lestrade recites his notes, before John stops him.

"Wait! I need to hear it. Let me hear it…please," John begs in a hushed voice.

Lestrade shakes his head as he says, "I'm not sure that's a good idea, John. Some of the things said might be a bit disturbing."

"I don't bloody care, Greg. I _need_ to hear it!" he explodes and then draws in a quick breath, trying to retain a modicum of dignity.

Lestrade considers the request then reaches for the mobile and engages the recorder.

John is surprised to hear music floating up from the mobile. "Is that disco? Did you get the right recording?" He inquires, his brows drawn together in confusion, then John realizes that he's heard it before. At the pool. With the bomb. That song was Moriarty's ring tone.

"Just listen," Lestrade beckons as he takes the seat behind his desk. "It goes on a bit if you want to sit," he suggests to his friend.

John's insides turn cold as the voice of Sherlock's nemesis fills the room that already seems to him to be stifling and takes a seat when he feels his knees begin to weaken.

"Ah. Here we are at last-you and me, Sherlock, and our problem-the final problem," Moriarty's voice rings through the small office albeit muffled slightly, causing John to flinch back a bit. "Stayin' Alive! It's so boring, isn't it? It's just…. staying," Moriarty's crazed tones crackle through the air.

The voice continues in explanation. "All my life, I've been searching for distractions. You were the best distraction and now I don't even have _you_, because I've beaten you. And you know what? In the end it was easy," recorded Moriarty says quietly, disappointed.

There is a pause on the tape, and John leans forward and waits expectantly for him to continue.

"It was easy. Now I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people and it turns out, _you're_ ordinary, just like all of them." Moriarty's disdain shows through clearly as he continues, "Ah well."

The voice suddenly becomes clearer as John surmises that Moriarty has now moved even closer to Sherlock. "Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get to you?" Moriarty taunts Sherlock, causing John to tense up with hatred for this man.

"Richard Brook," Sherlock's calm voice rings out through the office.

John closes his eyes and takes in the tones he thought he would never hear again. He smiles ever so slightly, even though the pain of losing Sherlock remains fresh.

"Nobody seems to get the joke, but you do," Moriarty says pleased.

Sherlock answers, "Of course," and receives an "Attaboy" from the man who worked tirelessly to destroy him.

"Rich Brook in German is Reichen Bach-the case that made my name," Sherlock informs the man of his knowledge.

John smiles at the surety of Sherlock then startles slightly at the American accent that comes next when Moriarty says, "Just tryin' to have some fun."

Moriarty's voice fades out a bit again as he says to Sherlock, "Good, you got that too."

Sherlock replies, "Beats like digits."

John looks up at Lestrade who shrugs minutely gesturing toward the recorder in explanation. "Every beat is a one; every rest is a zero. Binary code. That's why all those assassins tried to save my life. It was hidden on me; hidden inside my head – a few simple lines of computer code that can break into any system," Sherlock explains more clearly.

Moriarty's voice sneers at Sherlock. "I told all my clients; last one to Sherlock is a sissy."

John can hear the smugness in Moriarty's voice as he torments his best friend. He closes his eyes knowing that he needs to hear it all.

"Yes, but now that it's up here, I can use it to alter all the records. I can kill Rich Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty," Sherlock asserts rather smugly himself.

John reaches forward hitting pause, wanting to address the anger clearly visible on Lestrade's face. "He didn't kill him," John supplies.

Lestrade nods in agreement, "No, he didn't. The wound was self-inflicted. I'm just really pissed at him, that's all."

John startles at that information, "Yeah, me too," he admits quietly before resuming the playback of Sherlock's final moments.

"No, no, no, no, no, this is too easy," Moriarty, whines his voice laced with disappointment. "This is too easy." Then he screams at Sherlock. "There is no key, DOOFUS! Those digits are meaningless. They're utterly meaningless. You don't really think that a couple of lines of code are gonna crash the world around our ears? I'm disappointed," Moriarty tells Sherlock definitively. "I'm disappointed in you, ordinary Sherlock," he insults the detective.

John's chameleon eyes flash with barely suppressed rage. Sherlock was anything but ordinary. That sodding prat has absolutely no idea who he's rattling on about.

"But the rhythm…" Sherlock cross-examines very closely.

""Partite number one". Thank you, Johann Sebastian Bach," Moriarty goads further.

There is a slight pause before Sherlock asks, "But then how did you…"

Moriarty interrupts him jauntily, "Then how did I break into the bank, to the Tower, to the Prison?" He pauses giving Sherlock time to answer the question, then continues, "Daylight robbery. All it takes is some willing participants. I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness - you always want everything to be clever. Now, shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building – nice way to do it," Moriarty praises hollowly.

John's heart breaks a bit when he hears Sherlock's bewildered reply. "Do it? Do…do what?" He inquires before answering his own question, "Yes, of course. My suicide."

John can almost imagine Moriarty prancing around the rooftop while Sherlock stands stoically in one spot fighting for his life. _ I should have been there._

Moriarty continues quoting an actual headline that John had seen in the paper a few mornings after Sherlock's death. "'Genius Detective Proved to Be a Fraud.' I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers… Fairytales… And pretty Grimm ones too," he finishes, his voice rife with overconfidence and amused with his little play on words.

"I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity," Sherlock reminds the cocky bastard.

Moriarty sighs his reply in exasperation, "Oh just kill yourself. It's a lot less effort."

John's hand curls into a fist as he hears Moriarty speak so cavalierly of his best friend's impending death.

"Go on. For me," Moriarty goads then squeals out, "Pleeeeeeease" in a high-pitched voice.

John leans forward as he hears a scuffle on the recording. Oh, God. What's happening? Then he stops and shakes his head as he hears Sherlock telling Moriarty that he's insane.

"Really, Sherlock? You're just getting that now?"John speaks to the recorder as if his friend is standing with him in the room and then shakes his head, rolling his eyes when Moriarty echoes the exact same words.

He hears Moriarty take a deep breath. What is he playing at? "Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive," he offers politely to Sherlock.

"Your friends will die if you don't," Moriarty promises savagely, thoroughly enjoying the moment.

There is a barely noticeable pause before Sherlock asks, "John?" and the reply is "Not just John. Everyone," Moriarty whispers harshly.

John chokes a bit and realizes that he is wheezing with the effort to breathe.

"Do we need to stop?" Lestrade asks gently, his eyes softened with understanding.

John's eyes are closed, his hand wound tightly around the armrest of his chair.

Sherlock then inquires about Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade only to receive the most chilling answer yet.

"Three bullets, three gunmen; There's no stopping them now unless my people see you jump. You can have me arrested, you can torture me, you can do anything you like with me, but nothing's gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die….unless…" Moriarty's smug singsong voice informs the young detective.

"Unless I kill myself – complete your story," Sherlock finishes dejectedly as John slams his hand on top of Lestrade's desk, rattling the items there.

John can hear the smile on Moriarty's face as he says to his closest friend, "You gotta admit that's sexier."

John looks away, trying to escape the madness that permeates the very air, when he hears Sherlock's distant tone reverberate through the office. "And I die in disgrace," the recording says in Sherlock's voice, and John can only feel broken inside.

"Oh, Sherlock," he whispers, his eyes closing once again. A lone tear trickles down his cheek, and he swipes at it unconsciously. He does not notice the ones that silently follow.

Moriarty's voice drones on adding further to John's agony, "That's the point of this. Oh, you've got an audience now. Off you pop. Go on."

John listens very carefully as something in the mood of the recording changes. He hears a slight scuff and then another and then stands up as he realizes what those sounds must actually be. Sherlock has just stepped up onto the ledge of the hospital. "No, no, no…." he hollers at the recording. "You don't need to do this. Don't do this," he begs.

Lestrade stretches forward to stop it and startles at John's hissed, "Don't fucking touch it!" He slowly draws his hand back across the desk.

"John, why do this to yourself?" Lestrade asks plainly.

The playback continues on with Moriarty's statement, "I told you how this ends."

John looks up at Lestrade with pure unadulterated rage in his flashing eyes and snarls, "Because I _need_ to sodding be there. Now leave it alone."

"Your death is the only thing that's gonna call off the killers. _I'm_ certainly not gonna do it," Moriarty promises relentlessly.

"Would you give me…one moment, please; one moment of privacy?" Sherlock's contrived subjugation to Moriarty is John's undoing. He thrusts his good hand over his mouth to stop the tidal wave from flowing forth and barely makes it to the bin in time.

Lestrade leaps out of his chair to aid his friend and places a hand on John's good shoulder trying to comfort the devastated man. Tremors run through John beneath his fingertips. "I've got you, John," he affirms.

In the background, the final game continues to play out without its audience.

John grabs the handful of tissue that Lestrade has offered him. "Sorry 'bout that," he apologizes gravely.

Lestrade waves it off as if nothing has happened at all and hands him a bottle of water.

John freezes as he hears Sherlock laugh. It starts out as this slight huffing of air and grows into this satisfied all knowing beast. John laughs with his friend. He lights up with the remembrance of all the good times they had – on cases, at the flat, his constant sabbing of every one of John's relationships. John takes a deep breath in and lets it out.

"What?" Moriarty demands angrily over Sherlock's laughter, which does not pause. "What is it? What did I miss?"

John hears Sherlock's shoes hit the flattop as he jumps down off the ledge. He smiles warmly, still thinking of his best friend and repeats at the same time as Sherlock, "_You're_ not going to do it?"

Only Sherlock continues alone, "So the killers can be called off then – there's a recall code or a word or a number."

John's smile widens as he hears Sherlock's realization. "I don't have to die…" He leans forward carefully in the chair he has once again reclaimed in front of Lestrade's desk.

"If I have you…" Sherlock sings, mocking his nemesis.

"Oh," Moriarty chuckles freely. "You think you can _make_ me stop the order? You think _you_ can make me do that?"

"Yes, so do you," Sherlock adds with absolute certainty.

"Sherlock, your big brother and all the king's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to," Moriarty reminds Sherlock playfully.

"Yes, but I am not my brother, remember? I am you – prepared to do anything; prepared to burn;" John visibly blanches at these words. "Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you," Sherlock vows sharply.

Moriarty retorts, "Naah. You _talk_ big. Naah. You're ordinary – you're on the side of the angels."

"Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them," Sherlock's dire tone pledges menacingly.

John's arm comes up to rest on the desk reaching toward the mobile. "Sherlock," he mutters sadly, upset at Sherlock's unwillingness to accept that he was indeed a hero.

"No, you're not. I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me," Moriarty rambles delightedly. "You're me! Thank you! Sherlock Holmes…Thank you…Bless you…As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends; you've got a way out," Moriarty concedes almost cheerfully.

"Well, good luck with that," he finishes abruptly, before a roaring gunshot resounds and a body is heard dropping to the ground.

John bucks in the chair as the shot startles him. All that he can hear on the playback is Sherlock's breathing as he hyperventilates and cloth rustling as he moves round. Then John hears the sound of Sherlock's steps onto the ledge. He closes his eyes firmly and brings his arm across his chest to rub his injured shoulder, as he hears Sherlock say his name directly into the phone.

"You all right?" he hears as if from a far off distance. "Bugger it, John, answer me," Lestrade calls again.

John's head drops forward in defeat as the rest of his conversation with Sherlock washes over him. "Bloody hell," he whispers, and inhaling deeply, gets up and walks briskly to the door, using his free hand to swipe at his eyes.

"Thank you, Greg," he offers blandly. "Thank you."

* * *

John returns to his flat at 221C Baker Street and lies down heavily on his sofa. His body begins to shake mercilessly at the thought of all that Sherlock had endured on that rooftop. He had blindly fallen for Sherlock's ploy and gone to Mrs. Hudson. How could he have been so stupid?

Then he conceives of the rest of Sherlock's plot. Sherlock goaded him into going by making him believe the very thing he vowed he never would – that Sherlock was incapable of feeling a connection to anyone.

He knew better than that, and he played directly into Sherlock's hand. He acted exactly as Sherlock had not only intended but had predicted as well. It was all part of his bloody plan. He didn't know if he could forgive Sherlock for that.

John knew he probably should forgive the lout, but how could he when Sherlock had maneuvered him so perfectly like a bloody piece on a chessboard; he wielded his plan brilliantly. But honestly, what else could you expect from the great Sherlock Holmes?

John shakes his head in disgust. Sherlock, his very best friend, was most certainly, without a doubt, the most manipulative bastard that he, John Watson, ever had the privilege of knowing.

* * *

"No!" John howls as he tosses about restlessly in his bed. The well-worn duvet twists around him, saturated with his sweat.

He groans again, his eyes squeezed shut tight and his hands catching in the bed sheets.

"Sherlock!" John cries out. "No, don't do it! Sherlock! SHERLOCK!"

John bolts upright in the bed and scrubs his face wildly. His breath comes in stuttered pants as he looks around the room.

Realizing that he is not in any immediate danger, he settles back into the bed and closes his bluish grey eyes very slowly.

"Nightmare," John whispers trying to convince himself that he will be all right. He opens his eyes and throws off the duvet favoring his healing shoulder as he climbs from the bed.

Grabbing his bit too large dressing gown, he makes his way to the loo, relieves himself and turns on the tap to wash his hands and splash cold water on his face.

Checking his reflection, he nods once at the attenuated face reflected there and heads to the bath for a quick shower. The steaming water chases away the last vestiges of the haunting nightmare.

* * *

John's fingers drum impatiently on the arm of his chair, rain pouring from the sky as though heaven is crying its own tears for the loss of his best friend. The thunder roars vibrating its anger through the glass windows.

"Why today?" Ella questions her patient inviting him to share his innermost thoughts.

John's eyes blink rapidly as he glances at her in confusion. The question does not make sense to him. "D'you want to hear me say it?" He chokes out as best he can.

"Eighteen months since our last appointment," Ella drones out machine-like, her voice even-tempered, betraying nothing, as every therapist is prone to do.

John nods slightly, vitriol lacing his next words. "D'you read the papers?" He barely hears her answer of "Sometimes" before he continues on, becoming more agitated, his head bobbing up and down angrily. "Mmmm, and watch the telly? You _know_ why I'm here," he groans, his eyes blinking rapidly, left hand gesticulating wildly, excruciatingly aware that he really doesn't _want_ to be here right now.

"I'm here because," John starts, and then breaks off, as his emotions overwhelm him into an asphyxiating muted silence. His head drops downward as if suddenly too heavy for him to hold up. John swallows hard and fights to maintain control of his tumultuous emotions.

Ella leans forward perceptively, knowing that John's pain can sweep him away and he needs to deal with it. She prompts him to continue, "What happened, John?"

John closes his eyes attempting to shut out the pain and misery that is threatening to drown him in an ocean of loneliness. He valiantly tries to get a hold of himself, when looking up at her, his eyes engulfed by overwhelming defeat, he forces out, his voice breaking, "Sher…"

He loses the battle he has waged within himself and struggling once again to right himself in a world gone completely wrong, he clears his throat once again and swallows hard.

"You've got to get it out," Ella prods, knowing that it has to be done.

John nods affirmatively, his voice riddled with a deluge of sadness weighted with anger. He pushes himself through the torturous moment whispering, "My best friend…Sherlock Holmes," he manages, pausing to gain the strength to finish it, sniffles and says definitively, "is dead."

John squeezes his eyes tightly shut and, turning away from Ella, begins to collapse hopelessly in on himself. Gaining dominion over his torment, he gazes blankly at his therapist.

"There's stuff that you wanted to say…" she reminds him gently.

John opens his mouth to speak, but closes it abruptly, then shakes his head.

"…But didn't say it," Ella finishes sympathetically.

"Yeah," John says, nodding, his voice cracking under the extreme pressure of his emotions. There were so many things left unsaid between Sherlock and him. Things he had meant to tell his best friend and now would never have the chance. God this was so bloody hard. Why was it so damned hard?

"Say it now," Ella suggests, reminding him that he is in a safe place.

John shakes his head and replies tearfully, "No," then shakes his head again and finishes his protest. "Sorry. I can't." He admits defeated, looking away from his sense of her judgment.

* * *

John and Mrs. Hudson sit restlessly in a cab watching the scenery go by as the cabbie pulls into the graveyard. Mrs. Hudson clutches the flowers she has brought for Sherlock close to her heart.

John helps Mrs. Hudson out of the car, and they walk together to the graveside where the large black marble marker sits ominously waiting for them.

John sighs as he glances down at the final resting place of his best friend.

"There's all the _stuff_, all the science equipment," Mrs. Hudson grieves, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. "I left it all in boxes. I don't know what needs doing. I thought I'd take it all to a school." She looks to John for guidance and asks, "Would you…?"

"No, I can't go back to the flat again – not at the moment," John informs her as she takes his arm for support. "I'm angry," he admits begrudgingly with a deep sigh, his head tilted toward hers in compassion.

Mrs. Hudson nods knowingly. "It's okay, John," she supports his decision. "There's nothing unusual in that. That's the way he made _everyone_ feel," she remembers, gazing with fondness at the solid black slab with only his name emblazoned upon it.

"All those marks on my table and the noise," she continues to fuss affectionately. "Firing guns at half past one in the morning!"

"Yeah," John whispers in reply, his thoughts whirling with memories of his most cherished friend. No one had helped him the way Sherlock had. Without him, he may have been staring at the bottom of a bottle or just withered away in his bedsit from the intense depression that followed him home from Afghanistan. Or worse, he may have eaten a bullet from the gun he used to kill a psychopathic cabbie not all that long ago.

Mrs. Hudson prattles on disturbing his thoughts a bit, "Bloody specimens in my fridge. Imagine – keeping bodies where there's food!"

John nods in agreement. "Yes," he replies cordially, closing his eyes as she continues, her voice breaking.

"And the fighting. Drove me up the wall with all his carryings-on!"

John turns to face her, letting her know gently so as not to hurt her feelings, "Yeah, listen. I…I'm not actually _that_ angry, okay?"

"Okay," Mrs. Hudson answers thankfully. "Sorry," she whispers and turns away pulling her arm from his. "I'll leave you alone to, um…you know," her voice breaks again as she taps her pointer finger unconsciously upon her lips.

She begins to cry in earnest, pulling out a tissue to blow her nose as she walks away with crying gasps.

He watches her go for a moment to make sure that she is all right, then turns back towards Sherlock's grave. Drawing in a shaky breath, he swipes a hand across his face.

"Um…hmmm," he starts, pausing to find the right words to say.

He pulls himself up straight and begins again. "You…you told me once," he states, his arms swinging gently to and fro in abject misery. He clears his throat to finish the thoughts that begin to pour out of him like gentle rain, "that you weren't a hero. Um…there were times that I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this, you were the best man," he licks his lips emotionally "and the most human…human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so…" he frowns at the gravestone before him, "there!"

He chuffs out his breath and turns to walk away only to change his mind and turn tearfully back to the black stone with a small whimper. Looking over his shoulder once again, he steps over to the headstone and with great reverence reaches out with trembling fingers to touch the symbol of his best friend's death.

John takes another painful breath. "I was so alone," he remembers sadly gently tapping his fingertips on the headstone. "And I owe you so much," he promises, tapping his fingers once again.

He gasps in a tearful breath. "Okay," he says and turns taking several steps away from the gravestone flexing his hands in emotional agony, then considering, he turns back around at the foot of Sherlock's grave and stalks back toward the headstone.

"Oh, please, there's just one more thing, okay, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me," he beseeches his friend for one last favor – one that he needs with all that he is. "Don't…be…dead," he prays, his voice breaking with the strain of his request.

"Would you do…? Just for me, just stop it," he implores gesturing at the freshly dug grave. "Stop this," he pleads, and then curls in on himself as his hands curl into fists at his sides. He disintegrates standing over the final resting place of his best friend and weeps openly, sniffling in his anguish.

The reflection on the marble slab places Sherlock's name at the level of his breaking heart, and he lowers his head further in despair, covering his eyes with one hand to cry.

He releases a breath to draw in a clean one, then brings his head up with a sniffle. He engages his vision straight ahead and with a slight nod saluting the bravery of his friend, he comes to attention, and turning with military precision on the ball of his foot, about faces, and dismisses himself with dignity.

* * *

"What were you thinking, John?" Lestrade demands angrily, his usual calm demeanor all but vanquished in the face of his anger.

John shrugs plaintively at him, looking around the bland white room. "It's fine," he replies quietly.

"Really, that's what you're going with?" Lestrade's disbelieving shout reverberates off the plainly decorated walls. "What were you doing there anyway?"

"It's a bank, Greg. What do you think I was doing there?" John snaps back at the DI.

Lestrade paces anxiously across the room and back again, trying to regain his sense of balance. "Ok, tell me what happened."

John sighs and declares, "The man had a pistol. What was I supposed to do?"

Lestrade gapes at the man before him. "Have you lost your sodding mind? You were shot, you stupid wanker," Lestrade yells at him hoping to knock some bloody sense to into him.

"I'm fine," John reiterates dismissing his concern again.

"You're very obviously not fine, John. You look like warmed over shit, mate. You've lost God knows how many kilograms. It's almost worse than before. At least then, you didn't choose to participate in stupidity. You were more often than not dragged into it. It's like you're trying to bloody join him," he finishes, his ire preventing him from recognizing that this conversation has taken an ominous turn.

John's eyes ice over, "This conversation's finished. Goodbye, Greg."

Lestrade holds his hands up in supplication. "I'm sorry. I'm just very worried about you, John. You're not taking care of yourself. I promised I wouldn't lose you," he explains quickly.

John looks askance at the somewhat shaken man before him. "I'm sorry, you what?"

The Detective Inspector realizes his mistake a moment too late. He exhales before pulling out his mobile and searching for a moment then hands it over to John.

John glances down at the screen and reads the message there.

_Hospital now. _

_John needs you._

_Urgent._

S.H.

_P.S. Do not fail me this time._

_P.S.S. Protect John._

_P.S.S.S. Do not tell John._

"Sod it!" John exclaims vehemently. "You had no bloody right to keep this from me!"

Lestrade looks at John knowingly, "It was his dying wish, mate. I wasn't about to dishonor him by not following it. If it wasn't for me listening to Donovan…" Unable to continue meeting John's eyes, he looks away.

John huffs out a breath, "It wasn't your fault, Greg."

"Yeah, well it wasn't yours either, but…" he waves his hand round the hospital triage room dismissively.

Lestrade takes a deep breath to prepare himself for the upcoming fight he knows is coming.

"I know I sound like a broken record, but it's been nearly six weeks, John. You need to start taking care of yourself. When do you plan to go back to work?" Lestrade asks the distracted man before him. "John?"

"I went back to the surgery about two weeks ago," John admits to his friend, scrubbing his hands over his shrunken face guardedly. "I've been working as many hours as I can get, so I'm a bit knackered. As soon as they get back in here, I'm off to the flat."

Lestrade's stunned expression actually amuses John, and he smiles broadly, as Lestrade says, "Two weeks? Okay. What would you do if it were me and not you?"

John stops suddenly and shakes his head. "The same bloody thing. I'd do the same thing. Might have even kicked your arse," he adds with a slight chuckle.

Lestrade smiles as well feeling the sudden decrease in the tension in the room and regards John, his gaze turning quite serious.

"I need your help, John. I wanted to talk to you about helping me down at the Yard on a case."

John stares at Lestrade as if he's lost his ever-loving marbles. "I'm not him," he remarks defensively.

"I'm not asking you to be. This new case is driving me bonkers with all the technical medical crap. I need a fresh set of eyes," Lestrade complains quite vocally, causing John to actually laugh out loud.

"I know a bit about medical crap. I guess I could take a look," John comments with a chuckle shaking his head amusedly at Lestrade's antics.

* * *

John stretches very carefully, guarding his wounded left side, as he gets up from the sofa to get his laptop. He grabs it off his nightstand along with the paracetamol and makes his way over to the chair at the desk, where he powers it on and heads to the kitchenette to make a cup of tea and eat a few biscuits. He knocks back the pills with a quick spot of tea and heads into the sitting room.

He brings the cup to the desk and situates himself as comfortably as he can at his laptop. Opening it up, he inputs his password and pulls up a file marked Gerechtigkeit. He opens the file and begins to read through the notes and charts there.

He accesses the flow chart which has Jim Moriarty in the top box connected by single lines to the three intended victims – Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and himself.

The chart is very complex, making connections between Moriarty, his subordinates and various entities – government offices, Kitty Riley, the Tower, the Bank of London, the prison, New Scotland Yard and other such places where he would require someone with power and influence.

He adds a few notes from the information that he has acquired today and just stares at the chart hoping that more answers will come.

He knows that Mrs. Hudson's assassin was the man whom he saw entering the flat the day Sherlock was killed. Closing his eyes, he remembers picking up the envelope filled with breadcrumbs, the wind catching them as they spilled out onto the walk.

There was the man with a yellow ladder that he allowed to enter the flat before him. He even recalls how polite the man was as he said, "Excuse me" when he crossed John's path. He shakes his head at the nerve of the man.

After a brief discussion with Mrs. Hudson about the lovely tattooed man who had come to fix the wall in the stairwell, he contacted an artist friend from university, and she made a sketch for him, which he scanned to the file and connected to Mrs. Hudson's box by one set of double lines.

He looks again at the tattoos, having determined that they are tribal in origin. Once he realized that Mrs. Hudson was fine, he had looked around momentarily before racing to catch a cab back to St. Bart's. The gigantic man's presence filled the small hallway and lent itself to his memory. Mrs. Hudson had filled in the rest.

John smiles predatorily as he realizes that he is getting very close to finding him. Mrs. Hudson even recalled that the man had given her a card in case she needed more work done. Granted, Mrs. Hudson misplaced the card, but he also has his own connections.

John utilizes many of his military contacts from his time as a Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Many of these men owe John their lives and are more than willing to clear the slate by attending to a small favor here and there.

Looking at Lestrade's assassin disappoints him even more. He understands from his talks with Greg that he was at the Yard when Moriarty and his assassins were planning that particular party. John sighs knowing exactly what that means. Lestrade's assassin is a man or woman within his own unit.

As for his own assassin, he has no idea. He has nothing. Not a bloody thing. Not one lead to chase down. Not one favor he can call in. He is buggered. Damn it all. That particular box with double lines connected to him remains empty. It is time to try to do something about that.

A knock on the door interrupts his thought processes and reminds him of the many times Sherlock would rant about such interruptions. He smiles with sad fondness for the memory. "Coming, Mrs. Hudson," he calls, shutting the files and closing down his computer.

* * *

"How are things, Lestrade?" John inquires of the man who is quickly becoming an even closer friend.

"Bloody busy. This case is making me…well, never mind. Did you have a chance to look over the file?" Lestrade asks of the doctor.

John takes a seat across from Lestrade's desk and pulls the file out from his briefcase. "Yes, but just enough time for a cursory look. Have there been any more bodies found?" He questions, holding his breath a bit, hoping for a negative and disappointed by the answer he sees clearly written on Lestrade's face.

John sucks in a short breath and lets it out quickly, "How many?"

Lestrade looks at John spot on and replies, "Five. All are men between the ages of 24 and 40. They all died of haemorrhagic gastroenteritis within the past four months."

John lets out a low whistle shaking his head as he takes the additional pages from Lestrade and adds them to his file.

"Molly's convinced it has to be murder because the underlying causes are undetermined and apparently it doesn't happen that often," Lestrade verifies with John looking up at him quizzically.

John nods affirmatively, "Molly's right. It is highly unlikely to have that many cases of haemorrhagic gastroenteritis with unknown origin be accidental."

Lestrade chuffs out a frustrated breath, tossing his notebook forcefully onto his desk.

"This just makes absolutely no sense to me. How do five perfectly healthy men just drop dead like this?" Lestrade questions John's professional opinion.

"Most likely, they've been poisoned. Molly ran a full tox?" He inquires as he flips through the paperwork. "There it is. The tox reports are completely unremarkable. There was a slight spike for alcohol, but the report says that there was red wine in his stomach," he continues as he scans the report looking for more clues.

Lestrade quietly sits and watches John as he studies the file before him.

John shakes his head, heaving out a frustrated breath. "Unfortunately, it's probably something untraceable," he concludes firmly. "I'll keep digging. Let me know if there are any more cases to add to the file. I hate to say it, but the more information I have, the better determination I'll be able to make."

Lestrade squints and squeezes the bridge of his nose.

"Headache? Take two paracetamol and shove off for the day. It's late and you're already knackered," John suggests, a doctor to the core.

"Right," Lestrade agrees readily reaching for another file.

John sighs, putting the file back in his briefcase, and heads towards the door. "Night, Greg. I'm working a double tomorrow, but I'll call you after if it's not too late."

Lestrade waves to him dismissively as he walks out the door.

* * *

John sighs as he steps out of The London Clinic, where he's been working for the last little while. It is a steady job that allows him to remain at Baker Street, which is very important to him.

He keeps walking down to Regent's Park, work and Lestrade's case running through his mind. He closes his eyes as he crosses the entrance at the York Bridge and stops suddenly as he walks into something, or more appropriately someone.

He hears a muffled curse and opens his eyes looking down at the ground at the most breathtaking woman he has ever laid eyes upon. "Oh," she gasps, as she reaches for her colorful handbag.

John sputters a bit then stretches forward to help her, gently enclosing her slim arm in his hand. "Sorry, I was distracted," he apologizes then continues to ramble slightly. "My fault entirely. I should have been paying more mind to where I was going, but…"

The young beautiful woman smiles warmly and allows him to help her. "I'm fine, really. Are you alright?" Her lyrical voice fills his ears like soft music on a sunny day.

John shakes off his sense of wonder. "What? Oh, yes. I'm fine. Sorry," he assures her as he helps her to pick up a few of the items that spilled from her bag.

"Do you fancy a walk together?" he asks a bit shyly, actually surprising himself a bit.

She looks at her watch and smiles again. He believes her smile is bright enough to take the place of the sun. It illuminates the entire world; he is so taken with her.

"I'd love to," she says, tilting her head to the side, her dark hazel eyes sparkling. "I have about an hour to kill before I must be on."

"Great! Oh, sorry. I'm John. John Watson," he introduces himself with a smile as she turns to walk with him.

"Mary. Mary Morstan," she replies, takes his hand and leads him back into the park, her eyes twinkling.

* * *

John pauses to look around the flat, 221B Baker Street. God how he's missed this place. Mrs. Hudson has done a remarkable duty packing away many of Sherlock's things and putting them in his room.

The skull is still sitting on the edge of the mantle. He fairly beams at the memory of the things both he and Sherlock have hidden in that skull –cigarettes…evidence from Lestrade. He smiles widely. Some things didn't change.

John spies Sherlock's chair sitting exactly where they had left it on that fateful day so very long ago, a stack of nicotine patches sitting on its arm. They had argued about how many patches Sherlock was allowed to wear that day. John fingers the patches smiling with the memory.

Sherlock's coffee cup rests on the kitchen table, but the flasks, beakers, other experiments and whatnot have vanished in the face of Mrs. Hudson's superb cleaning job. He opens the fridge to find food, a disturbingly alarming amount of food, and no body parts. He smiles once again at the thoughtfulness of his landlady and friend.

There in the corner by the window right next to Sherlock's music stand rests his violin. He closes his eyes, hearing the dulcet melodies as they play through his memories. John crosses the spotless room, his eyes never straying from the violin, to have a sit in his chair.

This chair. He really missed this chair but has not been able to return to the flat until now. Funny, how the simple things can stand out in your memory.

John looks to the yellow smiley face on the wall and laughs out loud when he notices that Mrs. Hudson did not repair the bullet holes either.

"Are you okay, John?" He hears tentatively asked from the doorway.

John smiles as he turns towards Mrs. Hudson. "I'm getting there," he replies as he picks up the paper and begins to read.

* * *

John's mobile rings and he pauses to answer it, "Hello."

"Hey, John, it's Greg. We've got another one. This brings us up to seven in five months. Do you want to come out and look at the site?"

John considers it and decides it may be for the best as it's his first opportunity to do so. "I'll be there shortly," he sighs before ringing off.

Less than half an hour later, he strides onto the crime scene with Mary holding his hand.

"Sorry, it took us a bit to get here. Greg Lestrade, _this_…is Mary Morstan," he introduces her with a tentative smile. Looking fondly upon her, he finishes the introduction, "Mary, this is Greg."

She shakes his hand firmly with a smile. "Hello, I'm very pleased to meet you. John has spoken very highly of you," she says quietly out of respect for the scene. "John, why don't I go and wait over there," she suggests, pointing at a copse of trees not far off.

John nods, "Thank you. I shouldn't be long, then we can go on," he assures her raising the backs of his fingers to caress her cheek.

Lestrade tilts his head to the side, smiles wickedly at John, and leads him to the body muttering just loudly enough for John to hear, "Looks like you've been a bit busy, mate."

"Mary? Yeah, she's wonderful. She wants me to take her to meet Sherlock tomorrow. Not sure about that. You know how he was," John reminds the older DI shaking his head.

Lestrade laughs out loud remembering the antics Sherlock was prone to when interfering with John's relationships.

Both men quickly sober when they step up to the body resting in the grass splayed out for all to see, his eyes wide open with muted horror at the last final moments of his too short life.

"Bloody hell," John swears glancing away for a moment whilst snapping on the latex gloves Lestrade handed to him. He crouches down next to the cool body and places two fingers gently at the carotid, although the victim is obviously dead.

Lestrade glances at him bewildered shaking his head in amusement.

John's abashed reply of "Sorry, habit" makes perfect sense to the Detective Inspector.

"Anderson's already had a gander. I wanted you to have a chance to look at the body first hand. Share your thoughts," Lestrade offers placing a supportive hand on John's shoulder, when the younger doctor closes his eyes at the blood all over the poor bloke's face.

John pats his hand in gratitude and stands up after completing his examination. "From what I can tell, looks like he died like the rest of 'em. I wish I could be more help, Greg, but…" he trails off disappointedly.

"No worries, John. We'll get this prat. He can't hide forever," Lestrade growls frustrated.

John looks down at the body again. "It's been a bit since the last one, yes?" He inquires waiting until he receives a confirmation nod before he continues. "Something about this one is a bit different. Look at the way he's resting. This one wasn't just discarded. This one meant something to the killer. She's placed his head on a bloody coat pillow for Christ's sake," he exclaims disturbed.

"She? You said she, John," Lestrade intones waiting for a reply from his speechless friend.

John looks at the body then over at Greg. "I did? I guess it's just a feeling. Most men wouldn't think of the victim's comfort. That seems more like something a woman would do. It's more natural," he finishes with a shrug.

"Look, I should get back to Mary," John shakes Lestrade's hand upon removing his latex gloves and disposing of them. "I'll give you a call if I think of anything else." John looks away sheepishly, then turns back to Lestrade sadly, "Times like this I really miss him, you know?"

* * *

Mary rings the bell at 221B Baker Street and waits patiently with a bag from the market. Mrs. Hudson opens the door.

"Oh, dearie. I'm so glad to see you back here again. You fancy a cuppa?" Mrs. Hudson asks dragging Mary up the stairs.

Mary smiles at the invitation. "That would be lovely, Mrs. Hudson," she replies softly.

Mrs. Hudson busies herself in John's kitchen making the tea. "John, your Mary's here," she calls out causing the younger woman to blush.

"I like the sound of that," Mary whispers conspiratorially to Mrs. Hudson who replies, "Me too, love."

She finishes up the tea and brings a cup to Mary, setting John's on the desk next to his laptop. Mary takes the cup as she picks up the violin from the corner. She caresses it delicately with her fingertips respectfully admiring every curve of the incredible instrument.

"He deserves a bit of happiness after the past several months. Sherlock and he were close, you know," Mrs. Hudson prattles on as she tidies up a bit around the room.

She startles when John's voice reminds her that she is not his housekeeper.

"Oh dear, John. You startled me," she gasps, her hand over her heart.

John kisses her on the cheek. "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson. Not my intention," he admits guiltily, squeezing her shoulders fondly, then seeing Mary with the violin, he quickly but gently disengages it from her grasp and sets it carefully back into the corner. "Sorry, Mary, it was _his_," he apologizes, his eyes brimming with sadness.

Mary smiles at him affectionately. "No worries, John. I didn't mean any disrespect," she says holding her hands up defensively in front of her.

John nods approvingly and returns her smile thoughtfully.

"What were you two girls going on about?" John inquires innocently.

They both smile abashedly at each other.

John catches the look between them. "Well, that can't be good for me," he mutters with amusement. He looks over at Mary, "Are you ready?" He asks her quietly, holding out his hand to her.

"Ready for what, dear?" Mrs. Hudson inquires, her face screwed up with confusion.

Mary smiles shyly, "He's taking me…to meet Sherlock."

Mrs. Hudson sighs with delight, "Oh that's wonderful. Simply wonderful. You two kids go on now. I'll see you later."

Mrs. Hudson cleans up the teacups and straightens the room as John helps Mary into her coat squeezing her shoulders lovingly.

* * *

"Do you mind if we walk, Mary?"

She smiles understandingly. "Sure," she replies supportively putting her arm through his as they walk down Baker Street together.

They walk for quite awhile before she notices that they are not heading towards the cemetery where Sherlock is buried. Out of respect for how difficult this is for John she stays silent, watches the people around them, and hugs John's arm to her chest causing him to smile, his eyes bright.

They walk into St. Bart's, and she figures that he is taking her to the lab where Sherlock would work so that she can get a feel for the man he was, but again he surprises her by taking the stairs all the way up to the roof.

He walks out onto the rooftop, clutching Mary's hand tightly in his.

"I come here every Thursday to talk to him," he tells her gently. He reverently places his hand on the ledge where he last saw his best friend. "He was standing right here, Mary, the last time I saw him. He was always bigger than life…" John fades out slowly.

John shakes himself as if from a dream. "I know you may think me a bit off, but this is where I remember him so clearly. The last moments…where…well, I should have told him so many things, but never got the opportunity." He takes a deep breath and blows it out distractedly.

Raising their joined hands between them, he introduces her, "Sherlock, this is my Mary," he says tenderly. "Mary…Sherlock," he finishes, then turns toward her with a tentative smile. "Well, I guess I can take it as a good sign you're still here," he chuckles.

She laughs merrily resting her free hand on the side of his face. Taking a seat on the duvet she has spread out, she drags him down to join her.

"John, don't be ridiculous. I think that you're very sweet, and I love that you loved your friend so much that you talk to him every Thursday."

He smiles relieved that she seems to understand him so well. "I figured it was only fitting. Half the conversations that he ever had with me, I wasn't even at the flat for," he says laughingly.

She looks at him uncertainly and with a laugh asks, "What ever do you mean?"

John begins to laugh as well. "There was the time he decided that he would not leave the flat for any case that measured less than a seven on his alleviating boredom scale. He sent me out to the countryside with a bloody laptop so that he could see the crime scene through it. He was an insufferable wanker," he chuckles then continues. "He told me that we had discussed it the day before. I reminded him that I wasn't even home," he carries on, nodding at her as he finishes up the story.

"I was in Dublin," he remarks causing her to laugh delightfully. "He didn't realize you were gone?" She giggles moving her head side to side with disbelief for Sherlock's shenanigans.

"Not at all. In fact, once I told him, he explained to me that it wasn't his fault that I wasn't listening," John snickers as she fills the air with the peals of her enchanting laughter. "Of course, that was right before we ended up at Buckingham Palace for a case. Apparently, Sherlock felt that clothing should be optional."

She rolls forward, curling up with laughter at the hilarity of it all. Covering her mouth with her hand, aghast, she chokes out, "My God, the palace? He didn't."

John breaks up again and replies to her query, "Yes…he did. He was wearing a lovely white sheet."

Mary takes John's hands in hers and smiles warmly. "Thank you so much, John," she whispers leaning forward brushing his lips with hers. "Thank you for sharing him with me."

* * *

Lestrade shakes John's hand when he approaches the table. "Hey, John. How have you been doing?" He asks, smiling as he notices that John has gained a few kilograms and has lost the haunted look from his eyes.

"Better, thanks," he replies as he takes his seat. "It's been awhile since we've done this, Greg. It's good to get back to it."

Lestrade grins broadly. "Well, not to be an indelicate prat, but you look pretty good. Maybe even put on a bit of the weight you'd lost," he declares happily.

"It does make you an indelicate prat, but…" John retorts playfully. "Mary's a chef at The Foyer," John admits slyly.

"The Foyer as in at The Claridge, reservations required, that The Foyer. My God man, you have to marry her," Lestrade exclaims whole-heartedly.

John startles and replies quietly. "That's the plan, mate. I bought the ring today," he informs the shocked older man as he pulls it from his pocket.

Lestrade sits astounded with his mouth dropped open, "Bloody hell, John. What a way to drop that on me!"

John shrugs and smiles, "She reminds me that I'm actually glad I survived the fall, Greg."

Lestrade returns John's smile warmly. "Well, isn't that what matters?" Lestrade reminds him, pumping John's hand in congratulations and patting him on the back.

* * *

John pulls on his jumper as he readies himself for work. Mary's arms wrap around him from behind. He likes it here at her flat but loves to return home as well.

He smiles as the engagement ring on her finger catches the light. "I'm not gonna make it out the door if you don't stop," he teases caressing her arms lovingly.

"I can live with that," Mary returns jauntily stroking his chest with a tenderness that brings him to his knees.

He closes his eyes and shakes his head.

"What is it, John?" Mary asks him, tilting her head, her brows drawn together.

He takes a deep breath to answer then thinks better of it and releases a sigh.

"What?" She asks him again slapping him on the stomach playfully.

"I just can't believe that I'm here in this place. That I could have even a glimpse of happiness is unbelievable, and I stand here practically drowning in it," John replies turning in her arms and kissing her until they are both breathless.

Mary smiles up at him, "You make me happy too. Happier than I've ever known, John."

John pulls her arms down from around his neck and places a gentle kiss on her nose. Grasping her wrists he catches himself on her bracelet and glances down at it to free himself.

His expression changes from frustration to panic as he realizes what he's looking at.

"My God, Mary. Get it off," he yells, tearing at the bracelet at the same time he tries not to touch it.

He pulls it free from her wrist, drops it to the floor, and clutching her hand in a deathly choking grip, drags her forcefully into the bath and flips on the tap as she fights him yelling at him fearfully. He drags them both into the tub, clothes and all.

"John, you're scaring me. What's going on?" She cries out, tears in her eyes.

He scrubs her wrist, both of her hands as well as his own with soap and then repeats the process. He begins to frantically remove both of their clothes, scrubbing them both down with the gel and then bundles her up into a towel and clutches her to him.

"Sorry…sorry," he gasps. "I didn't mean to scare you."

He holds her closely caressing her long reddish brown curls. "Are you okay?" He asks hesitantly, his arms still wrapped tightly around her.

"Well, aside from the fact that you've gone round the bend a bit, I think so," she answers tentatively. "So what's that all about?"

"The bracelet. Where did you get it?" He interrogates her gently, still embracing her tightly.

"Janie and I went to the Eden Project a while back, and I bought it there to help support their cause. I've had it for awhile, John. I saw it in the jewel box and decided to wear it today," she finishes quizzically.

John sighs with relief. "So you've never worn it before?" he questions.

She grasps the sides of his face between her hands shaking her head no. Her body is trembling with the release of adrenaline that's running through her system.

John gently leads her back into the bedroom being extremely cautious of the bracelet on the floor; he lowers her to sit on the bed.

He scoops it up with latex gloves and places it in a baggie to dispose of later then squats down in front of her. She is shaking, and he folds her hands in his. He looks up at her lovingly and begins to explain.

"I'm sorry that I scared you, alright?" He apologizes and continues when she nods, her head in his hands. "We got an alert at the surgery about this bracelet a bit ago. It's made with jequirity beans, which are extremely deadly. Just handling them can make you sick, but if they get punctured at all they will kill you," he informs her fearfully.

"I'll take that in and dispose of it. Are you sure you're okay?" He asks again.

She chuffs out a nervous laugh and pats him on the chest. "Yes, John. I'm okay. Thanks to you," she finishes with a tiny knowing smile and a kiss on the cheek.

She glances over at the clock. "You're going to be late, John," she purrs silkily, trying to forget about the trauma of a few moments ago.

"I'll chance it," he whispers in the shell of her ear, caressing her and lowering her to the bedcovers.

* * *

"Son of a bitch, Lestrade. I have never been so bloody terrified in all my life," John rants, pacing back and forth before the man's desk.

"I can imagine. I think I would have dropped from a heart attack," Lestrade agrees with his younger friend. "She's all right, though?"

John nods his head unable to speak for a moment and lowers himself down into the chair.

"Yeah, she'll be fine. I might not be for a bit, but…." He gasps out quietly and pauses unsure how to proceed.

John takes a deep breath and dives in with both feet. "It did give me an absolutely bonkers idea though…" he trails off unsurely.

"Okaaay," Lestrade drags out not entirely sure of where this conversation is going.

John inhales slowly and begins again, "Hear me out first, then you can criticize how ridiculous this thought is, okay?"

Lestrade nods and gestures for him to continue.

"Well, we've been working this murder case for several months and we're no closer, so I start thinking," he starts, holding up the bracelet in the baggie. "I did a bit of research and there were like 2800 of these sold last year at the Eden Project. What if our girl, the killer, is crushing up these beans to kill these men?"

Lestrade leans forward as he listens to John's theory.

"Wouldn't the tox screen have caught it though?" He asks playing devil's advocate.

John pauses a bit before answering, "Not necessarily. You see the tox screen tests for a number of substances. You know like alcohol, narcotics, amphetamines, aspirin and the like, but it doesn't test for everything. It really can't. More specific tests are necessary to further determine what a substance is. Without a lead on what the substance may be, there's no way to know which specific test to run."

John looks at Lestrade who's sitting there with his mouth drawn open a bit. "I know it's a stretch, Greg, but it's a new way to go. All we have to do is specifically test for abrin. It's a dimer that acts a lot like ricin only a lot more potent."

Lestrade picks up the phone and calls down to the lab. "Yeah, DI Lestrade here, pull the vials on the serial bleeders we've got and run them all for…" He pauses glancing up at John for verification.

"Abrin," he finishes when John mouths the answer. "Thanks. I want those results first thing tomorrow if possible. What? Okay…well…uh huh…then I say make it possible," he demands slamming down the phone.

"Well done, John," Lestrade commends, his hands clasped together on top of the file.

John sighs with relief, "Don't thank me yet. I may not be right."

Lestrade chuckles quietly. "I'll take your best guess over some people's facts any day," he admires respectfully startling John.

* * *

Mary wraps her arms around John's shoulders as he studies the charts in the laptop once again. "What're you doing?" she asks coyly, her eyes blazing with need and affection.

"Just a bit of work. I'm so close on this, but I haven't quite put it all together, yet," John admits regretfully.

"Maybe you need a fresh set of eyes," Mary suggests helpfully, reaching for the laptop he is holding.

John debates telling her about his mission. He looks at her fleetingly and takes a deep breath to let her into his heart a bit further. "I've told you how…he died, right?" He asks the amazing woman before him.

Mary nods affirmatively. "You have and for your sake I'm grateful that the man who caused it is dead," she speaks a bit venomously.

John looks up surprised at the passionate display. She smiles back at him, "I'm sorry, love, but nobody should ever be allowed to hurt you like that. I'm not sorry that the bastard's dead!"

Her face softens as she takes his hand. "What I am sorry about is that he took your friend with him. That wasn't his right. He shall burn in hell for it," she declares with absolute certainty.

"Yeah and Sherlock will be the one shaking his hand," John spits out angrily. "He said he would not disappoint."

Mary looks at John questioningly, "He said what?"

John looks up at her, his eyes suspiciously wet. "Sherlock told _him_ that if he wanted to shake his hand in hell that he would not disappoint him. I heard it on the recording of what happened on the roof that day, but when I told you about it, I…I left…well…I left some things out," he admits begrudgingly.

Mary studies his serious face for a moment before inquiring, "And what _exactly_ was that?"

"Moriarty," he intones distastefully. "He told Sherlock that he would burn the heart out of him."

Mary gasps remembering the scar upon his chest. "Oh, my God! He…He's the one that did that…to you," she cries out, her voice filled with anguish.

John nods, "Yes, but he also told Sherlock that he hired three gunmen to kill Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and…"

Mary's face curls in anger. "And you," she finishes authoritatively. "Why didn't you tell me, John?" She looks directly into his eyes daring him to even try to lie to her.

John smiles, then huffs a bit of breath. "I did the same thing," he realizes bleakly.

"What? What did you do, John?" Mary asks him quietly, her hands caressing each side of his face.

"He lied to protect me. Sherlock. He didn't give me all the information because he couldn't bear it if something happened to me. I did the same thing to you," he conceded unwillingly.

"I didn't want you hurt, so I didn't tell you…" he tells her, then pauses and continues. "I've been tracking down Mrs. Hudson's assassin," he admits as he scowls waiting for her reaction.

She looks at him askance, her hazel eyes wide and her mouth dropped open slightly.

"It's where I go at night when I tell you that I'm out walking. I am out walking, but with a specific purpose in mind," he finally acquiesces, hoping like hell she won't punch him in the face.

Her eyes flash angrily and she stands up in front of him, her hands curled into shaking fists at her sides. "You had no right to keep this from me, John. No right at all. What if you were hurt? How would I even know where to look or what to do? You know what you went through, why would you put me through the same thing? What if I had lost you?" Mary fires the questions at him so rapidly; he scarcely has time to absorb them all.

John reaches for her. "Don't," her furious voice slips from between her clenched teeth, "Just give me a minute to process this." She turns on her heel and heads toward their room on the second floor of their flat at 221B Baker Street.

* * *

The door opens slowly and a small white handkerchief thrusts through it making Mary smile. "I'm calling truce, Mary," John states softly as he opens the door further carrying a tray laden with eggy bread and rashers.

Mary laughs placing a hand firmly over her mouth in an effort to capture the noise.

"John, you are too much," she says as she takes the tray and sets it on the duvet in front of her. "Mmmm, my favorites," she moans as she takes the first bite.

He grabs a rasher off the plate and eats it before she can stop him. "Hey," she cries out teasingly.

"So I'm forgiven?" He asks hopefully crossing his fingers in front of him playfully for luck.

Mary stops and looks at him. "Of course, I'll forgive you, but you have to talk to me, John. Don't leave me in the dark. I can't live like that. I've told you about my first husband and how he hid things from me and then he was killed. I can't go through that again. I can't…" she fades out putting her face in her hands.

"I'm sorry, Mary. I didn't mean to remind you of Bennett. I can talk to you and though I know it may kill me, I won't try to protect you like that. Deal?" He offers, putting his hand out for her to shake.

She takes his hand tentatively." Deal," she replies with a shy smile.

The bell rings disturbing the sweet moment. "I'll get it," John jumps up after kissing her softly.

He pads through the flat until he gets to the front door, where he lets in Lestrade.

She hears their muffled conversation but cannot really make out what they are saying.

John runs a hand through his hair. "Hey, Greg. What brings you over?" He asks in good humor today.

"Well, I wanted to let you know that I arrested one of the assassins early this morning," he informs the young doctor, his expression dour.

"Really?" John asks faintly. "Which one?"

Lestrade turns away then looks back up at John. "I arrested DI Tobias Gregson. He didn't even resist. He just snarled at me that he should have been able to shoot me any way."

"I'm sorry, Greg. I know you guys weren't close, but bugger me; he was still on your team. Any leads on the other two assassins?" He probes curiously, eyeing Greg for any reaction to his question or supposed knowledge that he has been working on his own.

"We've been combing the streets for both of them, but the best we can put together is that Mrs. Hudson's assassin was local talent and we did manage to get a possible name for your assassin, but he's in the wind," Lestrade finishes then hikes up his coat a bit.

He looks over at John like a proud parent, "I have one more bit of news. That's why I came by in person, instead of just giving you a ring."

"Gloating doesn't suit you, Greg. What is it?" John demands his hands brought up in supplication.

Lestrade has the courtesy to look a bit sheepish, "I'm not gloating, but thanks to your work tracking down that jer…er…bean."

"Jequirity bean," John supplies helpfully.

Lestrade nods and continues on. "Yes, that's the one. You were right. All the victims' tests spiked for abrin toxin. Molly was bloody beside herself. She actually whooped out loud and then hugged me," he admits awkwardly. "It was…well anyway, we've been double timing it to find out who bought all those bracelets and we think we found our girl," Lestrade supplies handing him the file.

"Amelie Cole," John reads then scans the file further, his face mirroring the twisting of his gut. "She has a six year old, daughter, Annabeth."

Lestrade answers regretfully, "It's too bad she didn't get the help she needed. Her husband was killed in Afghanistan and she couldn't hang it. We arrested her about an hour ago, and she just kept screaming at Donovan that she needed to find a good daddy for her baby."

John closes his eyes upon hearing that and is startled when he feels Mary's hand on his arm. "How dreadful," Mary gasps clutching his side for support as he puts his arm strongly around her.

Lestrade turns to go. "Well, I just wanted to let you know that it's been a busy day," he says sourly, glancing at his watch. "And it's not even 9:00 in the morning yet. If there's nothing else…"

"Actually, Greg, there is," Mary stops the other man abruptly with her words. "We wanted to talk to you about the wedding and how we aren't sure about actually having one."

Greg's jaw gapes at the news. "You haven't changed your mind have you?"

"No, no…don't be ridiculous. We've just talked about it and decided that what we really want is to have a civil ceremony and give notice as soon as we have a chance," John explains adroitly.

"We would both like you to be there as witness, along with my friend Janie. It will be a small ceremony," Mary tells him quietly. "Neither of us has parents alive, and I was an only child. Without Sherlock…" she trails off her magnificent hazel eyes glassy with unshed tears.

Lestrade agrees completely nodding his head with a knowing smile, "It sounds perfect."

* * *

John snarls predatorily as he walks into the mechanics shop.

"Good day, sir. How can I help you?" a disembodied voice says from behind the counter.

"Yes, hello. I'm looking for Alastair Hollingberry?" John petitions, looking around the shop searchingly.

"He's in the back. I'll get him," the shop assistant offers.

John patiently waits, his hands folded in front of him until he sees the gigantic man come forward. Amazingly, the man doesn't recognize him at all. "Alastair Hollingberry?" He repeats yet again.

"Aye, that's me. What can I do for you?" The enormous man inquires.

John smiles wolfishly, draws back his fist, and pops the bloke square in the carotid artery taking him down. Then he leans down and checks the man's pulse to ensure that he's still alive before replying. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hollingberry. I've been looking forward to it for quite a bit now. I politely suggest that you stay away from Mrs. Hudson." He nods to the stunned man behind the counter. "Assassin," he explains simply. "Well then, you have yourself a nice day," John advises as he turns to leave and begins whistling "It's Getting Better All the Time."

The colossal man lies unconscious on the floor where he has fallen, his body twitching from the heavy handed treatment of a seemingly docile former captain and current doctor.

"He's all yours, Greg," John offers with a smile as he walks out of the mechanics shop, pats Lestrade on the shoulder affectionately and goes to meet Mary for lunch.

The End


End file.
